So I have written about some of the arguments I have had and won. I guess it is only fair to write about some of the losing ones as well. It’s at least good for a laugh.

If something that big can come out of that hole, then you should be able to handle something that big going in: The great anal sex debate. See some girls are into it, some do it because they just want you to shut the fuck up about it already and others do it so they can have a form of leverage to ruin your life at a later date. Now no matter how you splice it, the real trick is propositioning it. You never know what magic words (or cocktail) will get you a pass to play with a girl’s rabbit’s nostril. I once had a girlfriend who would do just about anything in the sack but that. Which leads me to believe she once dated Meatloaf and he then wrote a song about her bullshit (here is your example). She would also take these big shits and tell me about it. So one day after exhausting reasons like “It’s the preferred method of Europe” or “You can’t get knocked up doing this shit” I simply said “If something that big can come out of that hole, then you should be able to handle something that big going in”. That denied me from ever viewing the brown starfish ever again in that relationship. Total fail. It may sound like a logical thing to say, but I advise you not to use it. It doesn’t work and you could get a knee in the crotch out of nowhere.

No one will ever notice that I have a shiner: I used to work as a bouncer at a particular shitty club on The Bowery. Did it for years and more often than not someone got hit during my employment there. At any rate I had to work this one particular show the night before my wife’s mom’s wedding. Long story short I got into a huge fight with a big Polish dude and wound up with a nice shiner. Which led me to a near psychotic episode to kill said Polish gentleman because I knew I was dead as soon as I walked in the door later on that night. So I finish my shift and pick up a tube of Preparation H (works wonders on black eyes.) and some more ice and hope to god she won’t wake up when I come home. That only happens in the movies. She not only heard me come in, but noticed that I was holding a bag of ice. Not to mention that my face smelled like an old mans asshole. The light goes on and I find myself paddling up Shit’s Creek. I try to tell her that no one will notice. It’s a wedding, everyone is going to be focused on your mom and (name withheld) and I’ll just hang back and keep my head down. That plan must have been designed by the same brilliant architect that assumed that my wife would never wake up and notice I’m dinged up. Another complete failure. Everyone was asking about it. I was bombarded with questions about what the other guy looks like and was even told that I must not be very good at what I do. That black eye got a lot of attention that day to the point that it might as well have gone up and gotten married too. Oh well, at least my life isn’t boring. What the fuck have you done?

Here are some ridiculous arguments and debates I have actually had. I really like to push buttons some days and fully realize that I am an asshole. No need to point it out. But you can feel free to remind my parents that they should have hugged me more and been there for me morally all you like.

Fisting is way more intimate that any other form of sex: Nothing says deep intimacy like having your partner’s hand deep inside of you. It takes a lot of trust on the part of both parties and it takes bonding to a whole new level. Try topping that. If you tell me it’s gross or whatever I’ll just retort that you are a pussy or a selfish bitch that is too frigid to open up and blossom for your lover. Enjoy your lonely life. My only other move after that is to duck.

Shemale on female porn is not gay: Technically it’s straight porn. You have a guy and a girl fucking in front of you. Granted it’s a guy that looks like a chick, but it is a guy. I try to think of it as lesbian porn with a penis. Now the great part of this is that if you bring this up at a party when everyone is drunk, it’ll be the topic of conversation for way longer than it really should. Eventually someone will open up and say they are either interested or that they like it. This is when you turn the tables and call them a Nancy. You’ll not only be the life of the party but you’ll have also further propelled someones sexual dysfunction.

Animal porn is not oppressive to animals: I once was throwing a bachelor party for a good friend and joked to his wife that I would get a donkey show for him. One of her friends chirped up and mentioned that animal porn is oppressive to the animal. This was infuriating on all sorts of levels and I was determined to shut her friend up. I asked her what was worse for the donkey, pulling a plow in the hot sun all day or getting a piece? What would you prefer? Is it really that bad that a Chok The Russian Mastiff gets some instead of chasing the ball? I would say those animal’s are living the high life. Now the real question is what or who do those women owe to have to do that? If she had said that it was oppressive and degrading to women I would have agreed. But I would still insist that it’s funny.

So I like porn. A lot. And shopping for porn is very much like shopping for records. Which is something else I enjoy quite a bit. I like to dig and find great spots with decent prices containing the titles I am looking for.

Once upon a time NYC was full of porn stores and Times Sq. was probably the closest I’ll ever come to understanding what Sodom and Gommorrah was like. As a young teenager I used to slip into porn stores all the time. The thrill of being underage in these den of sins was unbelieveable. I used to hit the peep shows and torture girls and beat my shit like it owed me money in the booths all the time. One could say I was an aficionado of these shitholes and shamefully I’d have to agree. But there were some horror stories that came with the price of my scumbag glory and I am here to share with you. Here is one of them.

Like the time I snuck into this one porn store that I usually could not get into. It was an age issue. I was 17 and you had to be at least 21 to get in. So somehow I slipped in. I was trying to check out the titles and I was probably trying to build up my Dark Bros. title collection or something but I didn’t want to get snagged by the attendant. So I decide that instead of buying a movie I’ll go and hit a booth and do some self loving. And it was on that day I learned about the horrors of the buddy booth.

See I didn’t know what that meant let alone notice the fucking hole in the side of the wall. So here I am watching some poor girl get it from all angles or some really ill euro shit and all of a sudden I notice that something in the corner of my eye. I had hoped it was a rat. And if there was a god, he’d have been kind enough to provide a rodent. Instead I have a piece of throbbing gristle staring me in the eye. I kind of froze in a moment of terror and tried to shuffle away from it. But this fucker is still there. Now at this point at a party I would make the joke that I had no recourse other than to blow it, kick it really hard, shake hands, etc. But I’ll just stick to the facts here. I was kind of just freaked out. I wanted to ignore it and continue with my business. I had just dropped $5.00 in that motherfucker and at 17 that sort of cash didn’t grow on trees. But having another man’s red rocket so close to mine was just giving me a bad case of baby dick. It was terrible. I thought about stuffing my jacket in the hole or something. It was horrible. Eventually it went away and then some fingers protruded making a “come here” gesture. I guess if I wasn’t taking care of him, he thought he could take care of me? I declined, called it a loss and tried to calmly walk away. The attendant caught me and threw me out out on my ass too. Totally sucked. But I learned to pay better attention to where I am going to rough up the suspect.

Seeing as how I am a cheap fucker and think that paying for Wifi is a silly concept in NYC, I find my self in some interesting places. Most recently is a place I’d like to call The Dude Cafe.

I saw a sign that said coffee and free wifi, so that there is an automatic selling point. Upon entering I was greated by a tall gentleman with a faux-hawk and covered in tattoos, with the ever so popular teardrop on the eye tattoo for good measure. He was also wearing an Affliction t-shirt. And that is the cherry on top of the douche bag pie for me visually. He was blaring Jane’s Addiction a little louder than I cared for. Anything over one on the volume is too loud for me when it comes to anything Perry Farrell has touched. When I hear the phrase “Party Like A Rockstar”, I think of guys like this and he fit that image.

He notices that I too am covered in tattoos and insists on bro’ing down and telling me how cool he is. He apparantly plays drums and is a huge Jane’s Addiction fan. My new friend goes on to tell me about some of the bands he has been in. One of wich was Hed (P.E.). If you have never heard of them allow me to provide you with a video. Bring forth the King Of Cartoons!

This band totally sucks. If I played in this band I would try my best to never let that secret out. I’d almost consider getting a sex change so that I may never be recognized for my tenure in this unexplainably horrible band.

Seeing as how I can’t get any work done because my little drummer boy insists on chatting me up something awful, I play along. I inform him that I played in a punk rock band for a long time and had worked at CBGB’S for several years as well. I know the band he is talking about, but it’s not my deal. Politely I say all of this. He isn’t really getting that he and I are not of the same cloth. While yes we both have tattoos and play in bands that are alternative by some sort of deffinition, I am not trying to have a “look”.
It’s understandable that if you want to be a musician you have to look a certain way as well as play. Just like athletes have to be marketable and get sponsorships. Not just live off of the sport alone. But for me being in a band was a way to say what I want, how I wanted on no uncertain terms other than my own. Part of what appeals to me and punk subculture was the fact that the crowd and the band were almost on the same level. There was no safety net and no big bouncers every 4 feet of me to save me. The same went for the audience.

My friend kept talking about himself, how cool he is and how he’d rather get titties in his face all day and be cool. While I am not against titties in my face, I don’t think it defines cool. At this point I want to nail him out of principal.

Once upon a time rock and roll, tattoos and playing in bands offset you from what was acceptable with the world. When I got all of my crappy tattoos it was because I didn’t want to fit in. EVER. I now wear long sleeves a lot so that I don’t get lumped in with the status quo. Some may see this as irony.

After a while my friend got that I was not interested in anything he had to say. I think it might have been the fact that I just outright said I don’t care for these things and I was doing the whole live fast, die young thing well before it was a fasion trend.